


Bittersweet

by KungfuChicken



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-14 22:03:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KungfuChicken/pseuds/KungfuChicken
Summary: GRRM promised us bittersweet endings. This is as bittersweet as I could think of.





	1. Chapter 1

The decades he had spent on the Quiet Isle had calmed his spirit and soul. His work had kept his hands busy and his mind occupied. The years had flown by almost without him noticing. He looked back and knew that he made the right decisions then, the times when he had heard the world calling his name. He had stubbornly refused to listen, he had ignored it. He did not regret it. Here he had all he needed. Here he was needed. This was his life now and he was grateful for it. 

The Quiet Isle had weathered wars and winters since he had washed ashore. People came and people went away. He remained where he was. A rock others clinged to. In time Elder Brother had discovered that he could do more than just dig graves. He had asked Sandor to assist him whenever there was a sick person coming to the Quiet Isle for help. And to Sandors immense astonishment he turned out to be a skilled healer. Now he was the one people came to see when needing medical treatment. 

Elder Brother was long gone. Another one had taken his place as head of the monastery. And Sandor continued curing the sick and caring for the dying as well as he could. Someone new sat the Iron Throne. He had no idea who it was nor did he care. It did not matter here on the Quiet Isle. The realm had recovered from the war of the five kings and its long aftermath. The beasts in human form that had raided the lands retreated to their lairs, biding their time until some spark would set the world on fire again. They were still waiting.

He was old, soon he would face his seven and seventieth year. His leg had never been the same and had gotten worse in time. He needed a crutch to walk with constantly now. His shoulders had hunched, his hair had turned grey, lately everything he did was a toil. Only his scars remained as they had always been. But they too seemed to have become less harsh in his old age. Or maybe it was his eyesight that was failing. Either way, it was no longer of importance. He had made peace with his scars and with his brother. He had heard what happened to Gregors body after his death. That a disgraced measter had used his brothers rotting flesh to create something dead yet walking and obeying the orders of the Mad Lannister Queen. Even in death his brother had not found peace, it seemed. Only when the Mad Queen' s brother Tyrion had returned to Westeros on the back of a dragon and set fire to her champion Ser Robert Strong, did Gregors miserable existence cease. Pity was the feeling Sandor had felt for his brother when he learned about his final hour. Pity because Gregors life had been a wasted one. Pity because even in death and as a senseless corpse, Gregors body and strength had been abused by those ruthless enough to commit sins so atrocious even Sandor did not dare to dwell on them. He still was not a great believer but he had found enough faith that he was able to let his brother rest. The seven had judged him and Gregor had gotten what he deserved: To be forever remembered and detested as a abnormal monstrosity in life as well as in death. 

No one had come looking for the Hound ever again after the giant woman and her two companions had left the Quiet Isle. It had become clear quickly that the new Hound roaming the Riverlands was not Sandor Clegane. The real Sandor Clegane had vanished into thin air. It was as if he never existed. Strangely it did not bother him. He who once thought he needed to make an frightening impact on the world, had faded into the background without putting up a fight. The truth was that he was done fighting the moment Arya Stark left him to die under that tree on the bank of the Trident. It had taken some time to realize it and he had tried to fight Elder Brother and his attempts to help him at first, that much was true. But he had also been so very tired and sore, he no longer had the strength to carry on as he once had. So he had given in and let Elder Brother take over and he never regretted it. He stayed with the monks and after long consideration he even took their vows. Here he felt safe. Elder Brother and the monks had offered him a place to stay and a second chance when no one else would. After a while it felt only natural to give up some of his former principles in return. 

Even his horse, Stranger, had adapted to their new lifestyle in time. Age and peace had mellowed the beast just like his owner. Sandor had taken care of him over the years until one night Stranger collapsed in his stable and died. He mourned the stallions passing. The animal had been the closest thing to a friend Sandor had had for a long time. And with Stranger the last remnant of Sandors old life was gone. Stranger had known him at his worst, seen him struggle to change to his best and had stayed with him, always faithfully, throughout the whole process. In time Sandor had found friends among the monks and there had been Elder Brother of course. But Stranger was the one who had accepted him as a friend when he was still a fearsome beast of a man. For Stranger he had always been good enough just as he was. Now he was an old man but the memory of a horse who died more that thirty years ago still created a lump in his throat and made his eyes water. 

The return of Tyrion Lannister to Westeros was the end for Cersei Lannister and her reign. First the brother she hated above all destroyed eyerything she had achieved with his dragons and the mighty host he commanded for the returning Targaryen queen. Then the brother she had loved above all had come to her cell in the Red Keep where she had been confined, seen her rant and rave, frothing at the mouth, all pretense of sanity gone. How she died nobody knew. All people ever learned was that Jaime Lannister had emerged from her cell stony-faced, leaving behind her lifeless body. Ser Jaime then mounted his horse and rode straight to the Wall where he died a true hero at last, defending the ones who could not do so themselves against the ice creatures that threatened to invade the realm. The reputation and power of house Lannister could never be reinstated to its former glory although Tyrion Lannister tried long and hard. The new queen Daenerys Targaryen made him Hand and he proved more than suitable for the job. Together they brought peace and prosperity to the realm once more. But the seed of distrust and hatred that Tywin Lannister and his daughter Cersei had planted in Westeros took root and sprouted. A excellent Hand to the Queen Tyrion Lannister might have been. It did not make people love or trust him. Despite his intelligence and generosity he led a lonely life, singled out like he always had been. He finally renounced his claim to Casterly Rock in favor of one of his remaining cousins who had heirs to continue the line. The Lannisters held no position of importance at court or elsewhere since Tyrion Lannister died fifteen years ago. The influence of house Lannister had been reduced to a small part of the Westerlands around Casterly Rock and Lannisport. 

The short reign of the Lord Protector Petyr Baelish in the Vale was almost forgotten. Baelish had met his grisly end at the hands of the enraged and hungry people at the harbour of Gulltown where he had been inspecting and then buying a shipload of grain and had foolishly refused to distribute anything to the starving townsfolk. Like the High Septon during the bread riots in Kings Landing fifty years ago, he had been torn to pieces by the angry mob. In the end all that remained of the man who had scheemed to control Westeros from the shadows had been his little finger which had been brought to his daughter Alayne for burial. The rest of Petyr Baelish had disappeared mysteriously. But the tale went that some Gulltown families made a lucky find of meat that day and instantly went home to cook some nourishing stew. Sandor knew that given the choice between Littlefinger-stew and starving he gladly and readily would have chosen to starve. But if it had helped some people survive the famine it might very well be the only selfless deed Petyr Baelish had ever accomplished. 

He still vividly remembered the day a big party of travellers had reached the Quiet Isle about five years after Baelishs death. Spring was clearly coming. And the warmth had brought the young and sickly Lord Robert Arryn seeking out Elder Brother and his healing skills. The young Lord was tougher than he looked for he had survived the harshest winter everyone claimed being able to remember. And thanks to Elder Brother the Vale was still ruled by the Arryns, for young Robert had accomplished what no one would have believed possible: He lived to manhood, got married and sired heirs. Under his reign the Vale had prospered again after the war and had risen to be one of the wealthiest regions of the realm. His son who ruled now was a just and level-headed man. 

The biggest surprise of the young Lords visit had been the revelation that Sansa Stark had been living in close proximity all this time. After she had been whisked away from Kings Landing by Baelish she had posed as his natural daughter Alayne Stone and lived in the Vale ever since. The big warrior woman had found here there and kept her safe. And now she had come with Lord Robert Arryn and asked Sandor if he wanted to join her and the warrior maid in their quest to reinstall the Starks in the North.  
To his own surprise he had refused her offer. Was it cowardice? He could not say. All he knew was that the thought of leaving the life he had built for himself on the Quiet Isle felt wrong. And by the gods, he had often imagined this exact scene! Sansa Stark had asked him to come with her and this time it was him who declined. Sometimes he still wondered if it had been the right thing to do. Who knew what would have become of him had he gone with her? All of a sudden everything he had ever dreamed of before was possible again. But he chose to remain the nameless champion of the downtrodden masses instead. Serving the sick and poor was his vocation. There would be no songs about his heroic deeds. Helping and healing people was all the praise and payment he needed and deserved. So he had declined Sansa Starks offer to come away with her. And as it turned out she had managed well without him. The little bird was neither little nor helpless any longer. Perhaps she had never been. People had always underestimated her for being meek and naive, himself included. But she was a wolf and returned to Winterfell, leading her pack with wisdom, strength and grace. She married a northern Lord, bore his children and ruled Winterfell and the North until her youngest brother Rickon came of age. 

He still remembered her standing on the ferry to Saltpans. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she stubbornly refused to look at him, hurt by his refusal to join her in her quest. It broke his heart to see her go. With his decision to stay, he had closed a door a small part of him had always hoped was still open. He knew his decision had been the right one. But that did not mean it did not hurt. The day Sansa Stark left he would have liked nothing better than to walk out into the treacherous mud of the bay, get stuck in it and wait for the flood to drown him and his heart that ached raw and sore in his chest. 

Elder Brother had made it clear that he would not hold him back, should he choose to leave. But here he was at peace. Something he had never been at any other place before, something that was likely to disappear should he venture out into unprotected territory again. To his surprise he found that he was not willing to give peace up. Not for anybody, not even for Sansa Stark. 

He wished she found happiness. He knew it was a lot to ask for a someone like her, for anybody really. But all Sansa Stark ever wanted was to be happy and to be loved. He wished and prayed she was. He hoped her husband loved her and was good to her. He just knew she was a good mother and he was sure her children adored her. From what little news they had heard he knew that she did well in the North and that Sansa Stark would indeed have been a queen everybody would have loved, had she married prince Joffrey. But how things turned out for both of them, she would forever stand as a symbol for everything that might have been, had life been different and more like a song. Lately he dwelled more on the past than before. He blamed old age. But he had spent enough time berating himself mercilessly for things he had or had not done in the past. It was of no use. The past could not be changed.

He was tired. More so than he had ever been. He had worked long and hard to redeem himself in his own eyes. Now he felt he couldn't go on much longer. The world had forgotten about the infamous Hound. It had to be enough.  
As he lay down on his pallet, groaning and with creaking joints, he saw a robin on his windowsill. The bird had turned up some weeks ago and had kept him company, cocking its delicate little head sideways as if beckoning him to come. As he closed his eyes he saw a last flash of red. Some day, and it wouldn’t be long now he knew, he would be ready to fly away with the little bird. Soon he would not say no.


	2. An Afterthought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because no one ever gets what they want in these books...

„So that day was not the day he died.“ 

That was all her sister said when Sansa told her of Sandor Cleganes fate on the Quiet Isle. Sansa told Arya how they had met that last time. She did not tell her sister of how she had cried, begged and pleaded with him to come with her. Of the pained yet determined look on his face when he declined. Arya would never understand. No one would ever understand. And therefore no one ever needed to know that for years she had secretly been hoping that one day a tall monk in a roughspun brown robe would ride through the gates of Winterfell on a pitch-black courser. It was no ones business but her own that for years she had been waiting for Sandor Clegane to change his mind, mount his horse and ride north into her open arms. It never happened. But what a fine song this would have made!


End file.
